It started with a big yawn. Another season of American Idol…ugh. A new batch of hopeful crooners, most with way less talent than their mamas assure them they have. Same Randy ‘Dawg’ Jackson, same gushy Paula, same Simon Cruel. Yet another year of cringing at the fearless, tone-deaf masses, and shrinking at the shameless exploitation of the ‘William Hung’s of the world. But as the many are winnowed down to the few, we watch. Not because we adore karaoke, or because we secretly enjoy salivating over how badly, one by one, the losers crash and burn. Each week we seek, with earnest anticipation, some hint of hope. Mired in a morass of mediocre, we long for a fleeting glimpse of originality. We crave that spark of creativity and imagination that has long since faded in the haze of modern-day megalomania.

American Idol has rocked the formula for rolling out pop stars. It ignites the hopes and dreams of every kid who ever played air guitar in front of the mirror, or went for the high note in the shower. Capitalizing on contemporary techo connectivity, Idol makes stardom accessible to the likes of you, me and them – the would-be wannabes. Students, bank tellers, single moms and dads, and yes, bartenders – they all line up for the chance of a lifetime. By mid-season you know their names and faces. And you want them to do well. But when you boil it down, it’s a sour pill to swallow. The world’s biggest talent competition is a fraud. Even as it plucks the few exceptional singers from the pack, the Idol process primps and polishes. It sculpts and molds, until in the end, a new household name packaged by some industry guru starmaker churns out generic songs written by well-compensated unknown songwriters.

Despite the hype of declining ratings over the years (that could only be aggravated by this season’s silly dance routines and shameless product promotions), we watch. To their credit, the judges push the contestants to somehow make old songs sound new. But in spite of Idol’s best efforts to brand another trademark, this time the real deal snuck through the ranks. David Cook has got the goods. Maybe it’s the rocker in him. Maybe it’s the ‘whim’ factor (it was his brother, from the start, who dreamt of being ‘the next American Idol’). Perhaps this cool Cook character simply contains a personal integrity that’s become so rare in music, and in life.

Back in the day, the ‘David Cook’s of the world wrote songs from their soul, and played in smoky cellars. They had a cohort of loyal fans, and only cared about making enough cash to pay the rent and get to the next gig. They worked and poignantly played, hard. With a little luck, they scored a record contract that showcased their artistry. And well, that was truly fine. But somewhere in the midst of text messages and instant downloads, music sold out. And we sold out right along with it. We bought into the ‘Britney Spear’s and the boy groups. We bowed to the bad music, the mindless melodies and the lame lyrics. We ordered up the latest churned-out chum, and swallowed it whole. But as the airwaves and our iTunes are interminably inundated by banal ballads and insipid ‘stars’, we begin to yearn for what we have lost. We wonder at what we have unwittingly allowed to wither by the wayside.

The genius of American Idol brings us together – 97 million Americans cast votes for ‘the two David’s, despite the ridiculous boxing match theme for the finale. The dark horse wasn’t supposed to win. Surely the lopsided, and at times lambasting, reviews of David Cook from the judges’ panel, in league with the millions of crazed teenaged David Archuleta devotees, would guarantee that the sweet, predictable, sellable younger David would prevail. Surely, a rocker can’t win a pop competition. Naturally, the moguls’ mighty music machine called American Idol would manufacture another chart-topper.

Not this time. Ryan Seacrest’s oh-so contrived and overly dramatized pause after ‘the American Idol 2008 is David…’ was eclipsed by a stunned Cook as confetti and conviction coalesced in the air. The public had not simply spoken, it had screamed. The 12 million-vote margin of David Cook’s victory speaks not to any aversion of David Archuleta. After all, who could disdain a flawlessly tenored teddy bear nicknamed ‘Archie’? The discord in the record-breaking result reeks of the festering cognitive dissonance that we are only beginning to recognize in ourselves.

As the new American Idol, David Cook represents our best hopes and dreams, in spite of ourselves. Somewhere between masterfully reworked versions of ‘Hello’ and ‘Billie Jean’ we got inspiration, and more importantly, realized we had sacrificed it. As we defiantly converged en masse, if electronically, to right the ship, we voted to stop the sinking and salvage novelty - the wellspring of unfettered singers and sublime songs. But American Idol isn’t the culprit in steering us so far off course. Modern machinations aren’t to blame, and stars and starmakers can’t really be faulted for cashing in. All good things go awry when we get caught up in contrived and lose touch with the priceless profit-share of authenticity. As David Cook already knows, when we stay connected to the sanctified source of creativity, real music happens. And if we attune to what inspires us, real life happens.